The Broken Window

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    Rhyme laughed in disbelief. “If Five Twenty-Two can get his hands on all this information . . . well, he’s the man who knows everything.”
    Mel Cooper said, “Okay, listen to this. I was looking at the companies that SSD owns. Guess one of them.”
    Rhyme replied, “I’ll go with whatever the hell their initials were—DMS. The maker of that RFID tag in the book, right?”
    “Yep. You got it.”
    No one said anything for some moments. Rhyme noticed everyone in the room was looking at the glowing window logo of SSD on the computer screen.
    “So,” Sellitto muttered, eyes on the chart. “Where do we go from here?”
    “Surveillance?” suggested Pulaski.
    “That makes sense,” Sellitto said. “I’ll give S and S a call, set up some teams.”
    Rhyme gave a cynical glance. “Surveillance at a company with, what? A thousand employees?” He shook his head, then asked, “You know Occam’s razor, Lon?”
    “Who the fuck is Occam? A barber?”
    “A philosopher. The razor’s a metaphor—cutting away unnecessary explanations for a phenomenon. His theory was that when you have multiple possibilities the simplest is almost always the correct one.”
    “So what’s your simple theory, Rhyme?”
    Staring at the brochure, the criminalist answered Sachs, “I think you and Pulaski should go pay a visit to SSD tomorrow morning.”
    “And do what?”
    He gave a shrug. “Ask if anybody who works there is the killer.”

Chapter Sixteen
    Ah, home at last.
    I close the door.
    And lock out the world.
    I breathe deeply and, setting my backpack on the couch, go into the spotless kitchen and drink some pure water. No stimulants for me at the moment.
    That edgy thing again.
    The town house is a nice one. Prewar, huge (it would have to be when you live the way I do, given my collections). Not easy to find the perfect place. It took me some time. But here I am, largely unnoticed. It’s obscenely easy to be virtually anonymous in New York. What a marvelous city! Here, the default mode of existence is life off the grid. Here, you have to fight to be noticed. Many sixteens do that, of course. But then, the world’s always had more than its share of fools.
    Still, listen, you need to keep up appearances. The front rooms of my town house are simple and tastefully decorated (thank you, Scandinavia). I don’t socialize here much but you need a façade to seem normal. You have to function in the real world. If you don’t, sixteens begin to wonder if there’s something going on, if you’re someone other than you seem.
    And it’s a short step from that to someone coming round, poking into your Closet and taking everything away from you. Everything you’ve worked so hard for.
    Everything.
    And that’s the worst of the worst.
    So you make sure your Closet is secret.